


Five Down, Two to Go

by ingridmatthews



Category: Sherlock Holmes 2009 - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:25:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingridmatthews/pseuds/ingridmatthews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Holmes is majorly turned on by Watson's skill with his sword/cane. He even engineers situations where such fighting is necessary. At the end of one such amazing fight, Watson is injured, so Holmes takes him home, doctors him up, and then fucks him through the mattress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Down, Two to Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aliciaforferris](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=aliciaforferris).



Five down, two to go.

Holmes' fists are starting to ache, the knuckles split and red. Lovely, but not quite as lovely as Watson finishing off their business, his elegant cane put to uses few could guess at. _Savage poetry_ is what Holmes likes to call it, at least in his private journal, the one he'd locked in the safe away from Watson's curious eyes.

While Holmes fights like a brawler, Watson moves more like a fencer; all smooth turns and parries interspersed with delightfully brutal _cracks_ when nothing else seems to work. Holmes thinks the thugs should consider it an honor to be beaten to a dithering pulp by Watson's cane - he almost wouldn't mind a few hits from it himself.

Watson finishes off his current 'project' with a slash to the hamstrings. A hot jolt races through Holmes' veins and he _knows_ he wouldn't mind being on the receiving end of a lighter version of Watson's ministrations.

Purely for purposes of observation, Holmes pushes the last brute straight toward Watson, who faces him easily, as if he were the only one of his kind, instead of the fifth of the evening.

Two of the villains' teeth are lost with the first hit. Holmes' squirms and adjusts himself and thinks he should be ashamed except for the fact that shame is an illogical concept. Watson looks luminous when he fights - flushed, furious and utterly competent and wasn't the appreciation of beauty the cornerstone of desire?

Before he can contemplate the matter more thoroughly, Watson's sword slips from his grasp. It skitters across the floor and the brute dives for it, getting it a handle on it before Holmes can stop him. He slashes clumsily and hits his mark - two shallow cuts across Watson's chest and a deep laceration to his arm.

Cursing, Holmes dives onto him, arms around his neck, but the man is wild with panic, giving him almost inhuman strength Holmes can't seem to overcome.

Watson approaches, bleeding but calm and merely takes the lower portion of his cane, places it between the villain's legs and hits him in the least gentlemanly place of all.

Wide-eyed, his mouth open in a silent scream, the criminal sinks to the ground, Holmes still clinging to his back.

Their work there is done.

Holmes notices that Watson is swaying on his feet, just a bit, but it's enough for him to grab his elbow and lead him out past a gaping Lestrade who, like a chambermaid after a tornado, doesn't seem to know where to begin cleaning up the mess.

The trip home is a blur of rattling over cobblestones and bundling a weakening Watson past Mrs. Hudson who stares at them with oddly silent concern. She brings hot water, brandy and bandages upstairs and leaves Holmes to do his work, pushing a protesting Watson down and tending to him carefully, if not with the professionalism Watson exhibits when taking care of Holmes.

"You were magnificent tonight," Holmes says casually, winding the last of the bandages around Watson's arm.

A somewhat-recovered Watson snorts. "Give me the brandy, please. No, not the tumbler, the bottle." He swigs straight from it and his eyes sparkle at Holmes over the bottle's lip. "Magnificent, eh? Was I dreaming or did you 'bestow' that last brute on me?"

Holmes glances away and shrugs. "Perhaps. But only because I like watching you work. It's very ... enticing."

There, he said it and Watson examines him narrowly for a minute before breaking into a lazy grin. "Enticing. That's an interesting description."

"Enticing, enchanting, erotic ..." Holmes clears his throat. "And that's just the 'e's."

Watson takes another swig of brandy, his expression thoughtful. "Erotic." A wider smile quirks his mouth. He reaches out to touch Holmes' cheek, chuckling when Holmes leans into the touch, his mouth hanging slack, his breathing labored. "You like it when I cane fellows, do you?"

"With a disturbing fervor." He's coloring all over, he can feel it and it would be humiliating except that humiliation is a useless condition especially when Watson slides down the mattress and onto his back, shirtless and beckoning.

He's careful of Watson's hurts when he slides up, kissing the bruises that mottle his skin in all sorts of places. Different shades from different fights and Holmes squirms at the memories of Watson gracefully - and viciously - taking out their opponents, one after the other.

It's hard to wait and Watson doesn't make him, shimmying out of his trousers and handing him the oil, the one bottle they never misplace. Holmes enters him and closes his eyes as he moves, picturing Watson on the battlefield, any battlefield, strong and defiant and he doesn't last long, especially when Watson leans up and whispers, "I prefer boxing myself."

Yes, their work here is most definitely done.

~*~  
end


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